I work at a local grocery store in an upper middle class town, so you see plenty of picky, and straight up strange customers. I ended up lucking out and getting a wierd one. I always like to small talk with customers, and the conversation quickly gets awkward.

Customer: Whats your favorite kind of music?

Me: I always loved rock and roll, maybe because my mom used to be a music manager (She worked at Sony for a while).

Customer: Music Manager huh? *begins scribbling down something on a piece of paper* Is your mom single?

Me: Nope, shes happily married with two kids.

Customer: Well at least let her know that Im interested. *hands me the slip of paper that has his name and number on it*

Me: Umm sure I’ll do that.

Customer: Ask her about what she thinks about Bob Dylan winning a nobel prize. If she thinks that he shouldnt have gotten it, then its clear that we’re meant for each other.

Me: Im not sure what she thinks, I haven’t asked.

Customer: Oh, well have a good day *looks disappointed*

Me: *Throws out the piece of paper he gave me immediately after he left*

I’m shopping in a discount store when a little boy about three years old runs past me screaming. He starts circling the racks of clothes shouting nonsense words while his mother, who is about three racks away, lazily calls for him to stop once or twice.

After a while, I am at the cash register, and as I am waiting for my credit card to go through, the cashier starts looking towards the door, which I can’t see because of the other cash register.

The cashier turns to two ladies by the door.

Cashier: “Excuse me, does he belong to you?”

The two ladies look and say no. Suddenly, the cashier takes off from behind the counter and out of the store. She comes back in holding the hand of the little boy who was running around earlier. 

Cashier: “Sweetie, you can’t go outside without your mommy or daddy. You could get hurt! Do you know where your mommy or daddy are?”

The child’s mother then comes walking casually along the aisle towards the door, as if nothing had happened. When the child sees her, he again starts screaming and tries to take off through the door. The mother takes his hand from the cashier and leads him out of the store without a word. The cashier comes back to the register.

Cashier: “I’m so sorry about that. Here’s your receipt.”

Me: “Are you kidding? You shouldn’t be apologizing to me; that mother should have been apologizing to you! Good for you.”

This ice cream store is family-run and the owners are creative in naming their flavors, but they will always list the base ice cream; Vanilla Chip is vanilla ice cream, Banana Oreo is banana ice cream, etc. Out of the variety of flavors we have, the only ice creams that are yellow in colour are the banana ice creams.

Me: “Hi, can I help you?”

Customer: “Yes, what is in the Banana-Rama-Ding-Dong?”

Me: “Oh, there’s peanut butter swirl and peanut butter cups in there.”

The customer looks down at the bright yellow banana ice cream.

Customer: “So, there’s no banana in the banana ice cream?”

Me: “…”

Related:
Banana-Drama, Part 10
Banana-Drama, Part 9
Banana-Drama, Part 8
Banana-Drama, Part 7
Banana-Drama, Part 6

There is a convenience store that I pass every day during my commute. I’ve never gone inside it before, but I develop a hankering for a soda on the way home one day, so I decide to give it a shot. There is nobody inside except for one cashier, whom I presume to be the owner.

I go over and pick out my soda. While the shelf advertises them at two for $3, I only want one. I don’t mind paying the regular price, but it is nowhere to be seen. I take my soda up to the counter to pay.

Cashier: “You have to buy two of these sodas if you want the deal.”

Me: “I know. I only want the one, though.”

Cashier: “You can’t buy only one. You have to buy two.”

Me: “I understand. I don’t mind paying the normal price; I just want to know what the normal price is.”

Cashier: “You have to buy two! You can’t buy one!”

Me: “I understand! I just—”

Cashier: “No, you do not understand! Get out of my store or I’ll call the cops!”

I gave up at this point and left empty-handed. I got my soda fix at a fast-food place just up the street. If anything, at least I now have a partial explanation for why that convenience store’s parking lot is almost always empty whenever I pass it on my commute.

We are currently in the middle of Big Viral Outbreak 2020, and my office is one of the few still open and “fully” functional — in quotes because there’s always someone out in quarantine, folks working from home, cubicles emptied and rearranged for social distancing, etc.

We’ve got an overall open floor plan with low, glass cubicle walls, and during slow periods in the afternoon, there’s a bit of chatting. During one such time, this gem occurs.

Coworker #1: “Yeah, my hands have just been so dry and itchy lately.”

Coworker #2: “I know! Just constantly washing my hands and everything, it’s terrible.”

Coworker #1: “Oh, I can’t get up and wash my hands every ten minutes, so I’ve just been using these disinfecting wipes.”

Me: “Wait, what? Which wipes?”

She holds up a pack of disinfecting wipes. A mixture of laughter and shocked noises erupts.

Coworker #3: “Well, that could be why your hands are so messed up!”

Coworker #1: “What?! It’s just sanitizer, like Purell!”

Me: “No, it’s bleach. Congratulations, you’ve melted your skin!”

We finally got her convinced that “hand sanitizer” and “surface disinfectant” were different things, and not to use bleach wipes on her hands.